


Words Unspoken

by faded_florals



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-02-13 03:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21487960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faded_florals/pseuds/faded_florals
Summary: Forever changed by their ordeal in the caverns below the Opera Populaire, Christine and Raoul must find a way to move forward. With the company of his old friend, Erik struggles to learn how to go on without Christine.
Relationships: Comte Philippe de Chagny/La Sorelli, Erik | Phantom of the Opera & The Persian, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 35
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a continuation of _Promises_. Please note that this piece will follow the timeline established in that story, and will directly reference events from that work. It is recommended that you read _Promises_ before reading this story. Thank you!

“We could go to the shore.”

Raoul furrowed his brow, keeping his eyes shut as he adjusted his head in her lap. “You mean Perros-Guirec? It will be warm there, in late August.”

“Don’t you like the heat?” Christine asked as she continued to smooth back his hair, combing through it with her fingers in an attempt to ease his headache. “We could visit your family in Lannion, then go north to spend the rest of our time on the beach. The little house I lived in with Papa is gone now, but on my last visit I saw that a hotel had been built not far down the road. We could stay there.”

Although he did have fond memories of the beach in Perros, Raoul sighed indifferently and shrugged. “I suppose.” He answered simply, not wanting to continue the conversation.

He opened his eyes to find Christine looking down at him expectantly, waiting for him to offer up an alternative location for their honeymoon. Nearly a month had passed since they had escaped from the cellars of the Opera Populaire, and while life around them had seemed to carry on quite normally, Raoul could not shake the feeling that he had somehow been left behind. Christine had taken up residence at the Chagny estate and had hardly left his side since their return, their engagement no longer a secret. He was grateful to have her close, as she showered him with affection and spoke so optimistically about their future together, but despite her good humor he inevitably found himself falling away into his own thoughts.

He had no reason to be unhappy. His body was healing as well as could be expected, and with the Phantom gone from Paris he no longer had to live in fear for his and Christine’s safety. Yet still he was plagued with sleepless nights, anxiously recalling the hours he had spent in that cold prison cell while Christine was left alone to suffer the company of a madman. She never spoke of him or of the time when they were separated, although Raoul had tried to convince her to tell him about it during the first week they had come home. He had thought that she would be willing to talk about their experience, and that they might find comfort in each other while they broke down what exactly they had been through. She was quick to shut him down, however, saying that she would rather let the past stay in the past.

Since then Raoul had decided that it was best that he swallow his anxieties. Some days were worse than others. His heart would begin to pound in his throat for no particular reason and he would be overcome with feelings of guilt, and he would excuse himself to stare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror while splashing water on his reddened face. Other days he would feel nothing at all, and could not do so much as read a single page from one of his favorite novels without his eyes crossing in apathy. He would sit in the evenings with Christine and Philippe and hear them talking without understanding their words, only to be pulled back into reality when Philippe would eventually snap his fingers in his face.

“Are you tired already, my darling?” Christine gave up waiting for him to speak. She brushed his hair back one final time before laying her hand to rest around his cheek, holding his head still in her lap. “We still have some time before dinner. Why don’t you lay down in bed for a while and rest? Or you could stay here and try to sleep, and I’ll massage your head some more.”

Raoul arched his back and dug his elbows into the cushions of the sofa to push himself upright. “No, I’m alright. If I lay down now I won’t be able to sleep tonight.” He placed his feet on the rug and rubbed the back of his stiff neck. Under his fingertips he could feel the scar from the twisting of the lasso cord, the impression of the rope’s fibers reminding him of his mortality.

“Are you hurting?” Christine asked innocently, reaching out to touch him again. Her hand rested on his knee, and he stared at it for a time before letting go of his neck and placing his own hand on top of hers. “Your neck, or your fingers?”

“Neither, I’m fine.” He lied. There was hardly a time when his broken fingers did not pain him, although the surgeon that had stitched him up had done quite remarkable work. The splint he wore now to keep his middle and ring fingers on his left hand stable was uncomfortable and had a tendency to get caught on everything. But the surgeon had been so pleased the last time he had examined him that he proclaimed that Raoul would likely have no trouble wearing his wedding band when the time came, and that he might even be able to curl his fingers into a fist before the end of the year.

Christine rolled her eyes. “I will go find the doctor. If you don’t want to take any medication now, you can save it for tonight before bed.” She said resolutely as she stood up and flattened down her skirts. “If anything it will help that headache of yours.”

She left the room, leaving his bedroom door open to the hall. Raoul got up off of the sofa as soon as he could no longer hear her footsteps, standing so quickly that his vision darkened. When the dizziness finally subsided he walked over to his desk by the window and opened the cabinet beside it, pulling from the shelf a short crystal glass and a bottle of gin. He set the glass on top of the papers scattered across the desk and filled it near to the rim from the ornate bottle, dribbling a small amount of gin down the side onto his hand as he lifted it away to put it back onto the shelf. He shuttered the cabinet and picked up the glass, letting out a long breath before swallowing a large mouthful of the liquor with his eyes pinched closed.

It was good gin, not that he was drinking it now for the taste. He slung it back, finishing the entire glass in four gulps before returning to the sofa to wait for Christine. The doctor had advised him not to drink, but given how little the medication had helped him in the past month Raoul had elected to ignore his advice. Raoul was not usually one to speculate, but in his rumination he had convinced himself that since his overdose incident on the night he had come home, the doctor had been watering down his pain medication. Maybe the doctor was right to do so, given that Raoul had purposefully drank the entire vial as soon as he had been left alone. But his pain had been so unbearable, and other than the visible damage to his body the doctor had no idea what Raoul had been through. He had not been trying to hurt himself, but rather he had hoped that the medication would put him to sleep for a long while, giving him some reprieve from his misery. When Christine had told him about finding him strung out in the hallway he was completely mortified, as if being used as leverage against her in the Phantom’s lair hadn’t made him enough of a burden.

Most all of the guilt he carried was tied back to Christine, by no fault of her own. Every day he was haunted by the thought of how he had failed her, how he had made it so easy for the Phantom to torture them both, and how useless he had been in their escape. He wanted to ask her how she had been able to recover from their ordeal so quickly, how she found the strength to move on while he could barely face the day without the help of his collection of liquor hidden in the cabinet. But he had agreed not to bring up the past, and so he bit his lip and put on a pleasant face, watching the world move on around him as his own feet felt like they were nailed to the floor.

Christine strutted back into the room and plopped herself down on the sofa beside him, holding a small glass bottle in her hand. “Here you are.” She said, presenting it with a smile. “He said to take it now for any pain, and that he would bring you something to help you sleep later, if you need it.”

He thanked her and did as he was told, quickly drinking the contents of the vial. It was hardly a tablespoon of liquid, but the bitter taste made it hard to swallow, even more so than the mouthfuls of gin that he had forced down moments before. As close as she sat to him, she did not appear to notice the smell of alcohol on his breath, which he was grateful for. 

Christine took the bottle back from him and set it on the side table. “There. That should have you feeling better soon.” She cooed warmly as she draped her arm around him again and began to rub circles in the middle of his back.

Raoul did his best to smile back at her. Before their time below the opera house Raoul would have fallen over himself to be touched so intimately by her. He had often imagined a time when he would finally be able to wrap his arms around her without fear of reproach and show her how much he loved her. He wanted to sink into her and bury his face in her hair, to breathe in the smell of her skin and feel her heart beat close to his own. He dreamed of kissing her, sweeping her up off her feet and laying her down gently on his bed without a care towards anyone who might disapprove. The thought came to him often still, but as she sat with him now he could hardly lift his hand to touch her in return.

He did not deserve her.


	2. Chapter 2

Removing Erik from Paris went about as smoothly as Nadir had expected. After seeing the Chagny gentlemen and Mademoiselle Daaé safely away from the opera house Nadir had ventured down once more into Erik’s domain, ready to deal with the fallout of Erik’s sudden change of heart. Upon returning to the cavern, he had found his old friend sitting in the dark, dangling his legs over the side of the pit where the Comte de Chagny had nearly been drowned not long before. He had unceremoniously discarded his porcelain mask, which laid facedown some distance behind him, and had stripped down to his shirtsleeves, his waistcoat floating below his feet as the water drained from the trap.

After picking up the damaged mask, with some convincing Nadir was able to pull Erik to his feet and persuade him to guide them both back to his home by way of the long winding paths through the cellars. Nadir had hoped that Erik’s sudden release of his prisoners was a sign that the man was ready to defect from his malevolent ways, and with some encouragement his new behaviors might compound enough to start building the foundations for a bright future. It would no doubt be a difficult transition, and helping Erik start over yet again was almost certainly going to be a thankless job, but never did Nadir consider abandoning him.

Nadir considered himself a rational man. He reasoned that since he was the one to bring Erik to Paris that he was at least partially responsible for all of the havoc that Erik had inflicted on the opera house and its residents. That was why he had stayed close, why he spent so much time checking in on Erik, building their relationship and earning his trust. It was simply a matter of obligation, and Nadir was disciplined and reliable. Maybe he had come to consider Erik as a real friend, although he was uncertain at times whether their rapport was mutually felt. Not that Nadir was particularly eager to be Erik’s friend; the pursuit of a friendship was most certainly not why he had become so deeply invested in Erik’s life. Their associations were completely, unequivocally, and dispassionately based on Nadir’s dedication to maintaining balance and morality. Nothing more.

The afternoon dragged on as Nadir tried to negotiate a path forward for Erik, who sat mostly in despondent silence. He was still fixated on his protege, as Nadir had predicted he would be. It was not until Nadir suggested leaving Paris did Erik actually respond, the far off look in his eyes dissipating into acute awareness. 

“Leave Paris?” Erik pondered out loud, standing up to pace the rug in the middle of the cavern. “And go where?”

“We could stay in France, or travel abroad.” Nadir offered, pleased that he had finally captured Erik’s attention. “Perhaps we could even plan a tour, visit some of the continent’s greatest establishments of art and music.”

“We?” Erik repeated, surprise written across his pallid features. “What reason do you have to leave Paris?”

Nadir hesitated, thrown off by Erik’s sudden questioning. “I- we have known each other for years. Is our acquaintanceship not reason enough?”

Raising his eyebrows suspiciously, Erik continued to pace. “Is your retirement so boring that you must follow me around like a dog, Daroga?” He quipped, causing Nadir to roll his eyes. “Or is it that your conscious would offer you no reprieve should you relinquish your position as my self appointed chaperon?”

“I am sick of games, Erik.” Nadir sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Will you allow me to accompany you or must we continue to argue about this?”

Erik smirked, seemingly satisfied in his successful analysis and pestering of Nadir. He conceded without further debate, asking only that they leave in the morning so that he might have time to pack some of his belongings and rest for the journey. Nadir agreed and countered with the condition that they were to depart early in order to make time to stop at Nadir’s home for him to pack a bag for himself. Erik grumbled when he realized that Nadir planned on supervising him overnight like a mischievous child, but instead of confronting Nadir again he returned to his bedroom, not to be seen again until they left the following morning.

As they left the Opera Populaire for seemingly the last time, Erik made a point to return to the stage to retrieve the mask he had lost on the night of the disastrous performance. He tucked it away into one of the side pockets of his soft sided luggage, as he had elected instead to wear a set of prosthetics to disguise his deformity for the journey. The flesh colored nose was hardly noticeable as fake, and the patches on his cheek and forehead were well crafted to blend almost seamlessly into his real skin. A dark wig and wide brimmed hat completed the ensemble, and when they stepped out into the daylight Nadir had to force himself not to stare at how different his companion looked. It was somehow startling to him to see Erik appear so normal. Passersby would not even bother to look twice, unaware that the now infamous Opera Ghost moved freely among them.

They walked to Nadir’s home to pack his bag, after which they hired a carriage to bring them to the train station. Nadir loaded their cargo while Erik spoke to the driver, and when the carriage departed Erik turned to him and explained that they would be making an additional stop. Immediately Nadir began to sternly interrogate him, to which Erik responded by lifting the drape on the package he had set down on the seat beside him, revealing his cat who was nonchalantly grooming her glossy fur.

“It will only take a moment.” Erik stated flatly, dropping the cloth.

“Where are you leaving her?”

Erik shook his head and looked away. “We will be there in a moment.”

Upon arriving at the Chagny estate, Erik went to open the door to the carriage, only to be stopped by Nadir firmly grabbing his wrist as he tried to turn the handle. “_I_ will deliver your package.” He said, placing his other hand on the concealed crate.

Erik shook Nadir’s hand off and reached for the crate himself. “You will have eyes on me the entire time. Do you really trust me so little?”

“You nearly murdered the Vicomte and his brother just the other day.”

“I am only going to leave Ayesha on the stoop with a note for Christine…”

“A note! Let me see it!”

Nadir pulled the crate across the carriage, making Ayesha hiss and snarl inside from the sudden movement. Erik snatched the crate back and thrust open the carriage door, and before Nadir could even grab at his coattails Erik had dashed up to the front door of the manor, climbing the stairs two at a time. He left the crate pushed up against the threshold and reached into his inner coat pocket, withdrawing a note which he left tucked inside of the crate’s handle. Nadir gave Erik the most severe glare he could muster once he hopped back into the carriage, but soon they were off once again, finally en route to their final destination.

When they arrived at the train station, Nadir examined the board which listed the departure times and locations for the day. He had given a little thought to where they might begin their expedition, and had planned to discuss the possibilities with Erik once they knew their options. Erik scanned the board for only a brief moment before pointing to one of the cards, a town by the name of Lannion with which Nadir was unfamiliar.

“It is west of here, known for its well preserved medieval architecture and distilleries.” Erik explained, sounding certain of his choice.

“How did you come across this place? You are not resolved to drink yourself into a stupor, are you?” Nadir inquired, skeptical of how Erik had such information on hand.

“I am not so weak minded, Daroga.” Erik replied, brushing him off. “And if you recall, I did some traveling in the time before we met. I assure you, you will find the little town quite charming.”

Taking a look at the departures board once more, Nadir sighed and eventually agreed that they would travel to Erik’s location of choice. The train carried them away that afternoon, and by the early evening they had settled down into a quaint inn on a hillside not far from the town square in Lannion. They shared a tiny suite of two rooms, one with a petite sofa and table, the other with a pair of beds with a window overlooking the street. Erik claimed the bed closest to the wall, unpacking his bag on the mattress only moments after they arrived. He appeared to be making himself at home, laying out his clothes so that they would not be wrinkled, and set a thin hard leather notebook with a gold self-contained fountain pen on the shared nightstand. He busied himself with hanging up his clothes on the railing in the corner as Nadir stood by, and after a short time turned back to dryly ask if he was quite entertained by watching him complete such a mundane task. Nadir left him then and sat at the bar in the common area downstairs, making sure to keep an eye on the staircase in the event that Erik made and attempt to leave on his own, and only returned to their room once the sun had gone down.

He found Erik sitting up in bed, his bent legs cover by the sheets, scribbling into his notebook. It was not an unfamiliar sight to see Erik hunched over a stack of papers, whether he was scratching out threatening notes or working tirelessly on his masterpiece, but Nadir wondered now what he might be working on. His disaster of an opera was complete, and he had never mentioned any other pieces, and he surely did not have anyone interested in receiving correspondence from him. When Erik noticed that Nadir had come into the room he pulled his journal back towards his chest, blocking his work from Nadir’s prying eyes. However, instead of pressing for information Nadir ignored the secretive gesture and wrote off Erik’s sensitivity of his writing as some personal journaling, as he did not have the brain space left that day to worry about what possible antics Erik could possibly be up to. He only passed by Erik’s bed and asked that he extinguish the lights when he was finished, as it had been a long day and Nadir had sampled a couple of different locally made brandies down at the bar and only wished to get some sleep. Erik consented and said goodnight, and sat up for quite a while longer scrawling into his notebook, flipping the pages loudly as he read and revised his work.

The days seemed to meld into each other the longer they stayed in the serene little town, and Nadir had hoped to observe a change for the better in Erik’s disposition as they were removed from the influence of Paris. He was quick to realize however that this would not be the case, as Erik’s demeanor seemed to shift from steely to bitter in the coming weeks. When Nadir proposed that they move on from the quiet town Erik immediately became defensive and resentful, snubbing each of Nadir’s propositions with biting remarks and insults. Not wanting to backtrack on the significant breakthrough Erik had made in agreeing to leave Paris in the first place, Nadir decided not to push the issue of leaving Lannion any further. Instead, he began to concentrate on how he might aid in Erik’s moral development in other ways, taking some time each day to suggest how he might make amends.

“You should consider returning your salary to the managers of the opera house.” Nadir proposed one afternoon over lunch.

“No.”

“The opera house is going to take quite a terrible hit after this whole debacle. The cost of putting on your production was staggering, and it will be at least a couple of months before a new show can be put on.”

“Leave me alone, Daroga.”

“And there is no doubt more than a few patrons will be withdrawing their funding. Giving back at least a few months of your salary could help turn things around.”

“No. Let me eat in peace.”

“Erik, you have made such progress already.”

“Can’t you find somewhere else to be insufferable?”

“I am hardly the insufferable one here.”

They bickered for a while longer, sitting in the common dining room while other visitors of the inn dined around them. Before long Erik stood up, interrupting Nadir’s moral monologuing to announce that if Nadir was going to insist on being a nuisance, then he would find somewhere else to spend his day.

“And where exactly will you be going?” Nadir questioned distrustfully.

“I don’t answer to you.” Erik snapped back as he made his way towards the archway that led out into the front hall of the inn. Nadir was quick to block his way, standing nearly the same height as his old friend, but at least twice as bulky. “Get out of my way.”

“I am not convinced that you are well enough to leave here alone.” Nadir remarked bluntly, earning a scoff from Erik. “Where are you going?”

“My enterprises are none of your business.” Erik snarled as he tried to duck past Nadir’s firm arms, which he had spread out across the arch to bar Erik from passing.

“I have made them my business.” Nadir asserted. “Some part of you must realize that I am only trying to help you, Erik. You cannot continue to shut me out.”

“Watch me.” Erik turned around and stomped away, climbing up the stairs that led to the guest rooms.

Nadir did just that, watching as Erik boorishly pushed past a young couple who were making their way down the steps at the same time. When Erik was out of sight Nadir turned around to see that some of the other guests at the inn had been observing their tiff, though they hurriedly averted their eyes when he looked to them. Having lost his appetite he tracked down the man who had been serving them and paid for both of their meals, leaving a few extra francs while apologizing for the disturbance. He then crossed the dining room and stepped out onto the back porch where some men were smoking and enjoying the view of the river that ran through the town, and sat in a reclining rattan chair to try to calm himself down.

When he felt himself centered again Nadir stood up and stretched his back, preparing himself for another round of arguments which he knew inevitably waited for him upstairs. As he passed the front desk he was hailed over by the receptionist, who kindly asked him the number of the room he was staying in. Nadir replied and she smiled, reaching into a basket on the tabletop to pull out a bundle of envelopes tied together with brown string. She handed it to him and dismissed him with a wish to have a nice day, leaving Nadir confused as he walked away to sit in the downstairs lounge with the collection of notes.

He flipped over the bundle to read the address on the top envelope, his heart skipping a beat as he recognized the alias written in a messy hand on the recipient line.

_O.G._

Nadir wrinkled the first letter as he yanked it hastily from the packet, breaking the nondescript seal on the back to open the letter. He was met with the same messy handwriting on the inside, its alignment on the page falling downward at a slant the further down the page the message went. The language of the note did not match the handwriting, and upon seeing the sloppy, printed name of the Comte de Chagny scrawled at the bottom of the page Nadir realized exactly what was going on. He pulled the next letter from the stack and tore it open as well, finding the same careless writing, only this time signed at the bottom by the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. They were forgeries, or rather copies of presumably all of the letters which had left the Chagny estate in the past few days, and somehow they were being delivered to the Opera Ghost directly under Nadir’s nose.

Furious, Nadir gathered the papers up into a crumpled ball and stormed up to the suite, shoving the door open to find Erik sitting on the sofa in the front room. Erik slapped his notebook shut as soon as he entered, and first appeared confused until he saw the pile of opened letters being crushed in Nadir’s fists.

“What the hell are these?” Nadir demanded as he dropped the notes to the short table in front of Erik, allowing the letters to spill onto the floor. “How long has this been going on? How did you even coordinate this?” He ranted, not allowing Erik a moment to pipe in to answer. “I have been with you nearly every moment of every day for weeks, trying to help you move on from all of this, only for you to still be wallowing in the sewers with this… _shit_!”

Erik leaned over the table to sort through the mess of paper. “I was only checking in on her.” He muttered, picking up one of the envelopes from the pile, and turning it over to reveal a blue wax seal, different from the others which were colored red.

“Checking in on her? You are unbelievable!” Nadir fumed. “You realize this is a very serious crime, to violate the privacy of written correspondence? Oh, but not that you would care about that.”

Erik did not respond right away, peeling open the letter in his hand to read instead of acknowledging his angry friend standing over him. His golden eyes flitted over the page eagerly, but before he could finish Nadir stooped down and snatched the letter out of his hands, tearing it a good portion of the way across the middle.

“You bastard, give it back!” Erik screeched, reaching for the note as Nadir turned his back to fend off Erik’s groping hands.

The letter was hardly legible, but the only part Nadir was interested in finding was the forged signature at the bottom, a name which he was not surprised to see had captured Erik’s interest.

“This is how you hope to reconnect with her?” Nadir asked disparagingly, pointing to Christine’s name at the bottom of the page. “By stealing her letters?”

“I swear, Daroga, if you do not hand me that letter within the next few seconds I will…” Erik began.

“What?” Nadir goaded, looking between the torn letter and Erik’s ugly scowling face. “You’ll kill me? Must that always be your answer, Erik?” He stepped back as Erik lunged at him in a desperate attempt to retrieve the note. “I have put my own life on hold to try to help you learn to live a good, decent life, but you never even considered that, did you?”

Erik was breathing heavily, his eyes fixated on the poorly copied letter. “Nadir.” He panted, extending his hand. “Give me the letter.”

Nadir shook his head, although he knew that he had no chance of getting through to Erik when he was worked up like this. “I can’t do that.”

“Please.”

That word was surprising to hear coming from Erik, but still Nadir ignored his plea. He was not foolish enough to think that denying Erik’s access to the paper in his hand would change the ending of their fight, but Nadir could not allow himself to play an active part in Erik’s attempt to destroy himself. He knew what was going to happen next, regardless of any attempt he might make to stop it.

Erik turned on his heel and marched into the bedroom and pulled his luggage out from under the bed to begin packing his belongings. Nadir watched silently from the lounge as Erik grabbed his clothes from the hangers and stuffed them indifferently into his bag, after which he folded over the top flap and secured it with the buckle on the side. He came back into the lounge and collected his journal and pen before pulling open the door to the suite to leave.

“Erik, don’t do this.” Nadir finally croaked, just before Erik stepped out and into the hallway.

Erik paused and spoke over his shoulder. “You don’t know what it is to be in love.” He said, before slamming the door shut behind himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Living in the Chagny estate was not quite what Christine had imagined it would be. She often felt like a ghost haunting the halls of the exquisitely decorated mansion, aimless and not entirely belonging. Something she had not anticipated when she agreed to move in was just how isolated from the outside world she would become, as she had not stepped off of the grounds even once since her arrival. Not that she was trapped there, she knew if ever she wanted to leave it would only be a matter of walking out the door, but she could not bring herself to do so. To be welcomed into Raoul’s home was a privilege, and Christine was determined to be present when she was needed. If she was ever needed.

Raoul was taking an exceptionally long time to recover, even though by that point more than a month had passed since he had acquired his injuries. More often than not when Christine went to greet him in the morning he would still be fast asleep and she felt guilty trying to wake him, and instead would leave him to rest until he would eventually come out on his own in the early afternoon. Sometimes she would sit with Philippe for breakfast, but he had his own routines and although he never said anything she could not help but feel like she was intruding. She therefore resigned herself to being alone, eagerly awaiting the time when Raoul would emerge and rescue her from her solitude.

Boredom became her daily adversary, following her like a shadow. She could not allow herself to be idle, for when given the chance her thoughts were quick to turn to things she did not care to think of. Memories of darkness waited for her on the fringes of her conscious mind, beckoning her to come close and remember all that she had left behind. Sometimes, late at night when the wind blew hard outside the windows she could almost hear a voice singing softly to her, the echos of half-forgotten melodies ringing in her ears. It encouraged her to crawl over to the bookcase tucked into the corner of her bedroom, to search the shelf for the book that held the last words of her Angel pressed between its pages, and to hold the note written in red ink close to her chest.

She resisted the siren call and never touched it, or even dared to look directly at the shelf where the book sat. Even Erik’s ring did not hold so much power over her, as she never felt the urge to search for it in the drawer of her dressing table where she had left it on the afternoon she had first pulled it from her finger. The note somehow carried far more emotional weight, and it felt wrong to have kept it, especially after she had promised Raoul that she had moved on. Perhaps keeping the note was a betrayal to Raoul’s trust, but she reasoned with herself that as long as she did not acknowledge it fully, as long as it stayed sealed away in that secret place on the shelf, it could not hurt them. It would only serve as a reminder to her to cherish what she had now, even if this new life was not exactly everything she had hoped it would be.

The best thing Christine believed she could do for both herself and Raoul was to try to at least pretend that she was in good spirits, with the hope that someday she truly would be. Whenever she was in the company of others she would smile and speak pleasantly of the day, never alluding to the battles in her mind or the thought that she was undeserving of the living situation she found herself in. Despite her best attempts to be cheerful, Raoul would often examine her with sad eyes and ask if she was alright, telling her that he would do whatever he could to make sure she was comfortable in her new home. She tried to convince him that all was well and there was nothing for him to be concerned with, and although he did not push her she could tell that he was never quite satisfied with her answer. When she turned the question back at him, asking if there was anything she could do to help him heal, he would shake his head and say that she had done more than he could ever ask of her already, and that his injuries really were not as bad as they looked.

Raoul was not a good liar. She knew this even before he began skirting around her inquires into his health, though his deceitfulness rarely stretched beyond overt white lies he told to discourage her worrying. ‘I am fine’ was one of his favorites and had become part of his daily vernacular, even though the bags under his eyes only ever seemed to grow darker. Although he was obviously struggling he remained attentive to her, something that did not go unnoticed by Christine. She knew that he must have spoken to the staff at some point, as they had warmed up to her significantly since the day she had arrived. Foods she enjoyed started making frequent appearances at meals without her having spoken with the house’s chef, and books written in her native language found their way onto her nightstand faster than she could finish them. Despite everything, she still would have preferred he spend more time out of bed and in her company, but she scolded herself for not being fulfilled by what he was already doing for her. He needed time to heal, and after all, it was her fault that he had been so badly hurt in the first place. She could be patient for him.

Not long after she had moved in Raoul had mentioned in passing that there would be a pianist coming to the estate to play in the evening. He said that he and Philippe were accustomed to hiring musicians a couple of times a week, as neither of them played any instruments particularly well but they both thoroughly enjoyed listening to music while they relaxed after dinner. When she asked why they had not come around in the past week he explained that after all of the unrest the staff had cancelled their last two standing appointments, but that it was time they started up again.

The pianist had arrived just as they were finishing their meal and set up in the lounge near the back of the house. They sat and listened for nearly two hours, with Christine continuing to read one of the Swedish books she had found on her nightstand, Philippe writing letters on a tray set across his lap, and Raoul laying across the velvet couch by the fireplace staring dreamily at the ceiling. When the music stopped Philippe wished them goodnight and went off to bed, while Raoul stirred and called over the pianist before he could pack up his sheet music to leave.

“That was wonderful, Monsieur. Christine, was that not delightful?” Raoul said, looking back to her hopefully. “You know, my fiancé is a very talented singer. Perhaps sometime we could have you accompany her.”

Christine had not given much thought to music or her career since arriving at the estate, but upon hearing Raoul’s proposition she felt her heart clench in her chest. She knew that he had the best of intentions, likely having noticed that she had little to do but read and wander around the house while he followed the slow, long path to recovery. While she did have a small stack of music tucked away in the little trunk which held her few belongings, she had not practiced her craft with, or for, anyone other than her fallen Angel in so long, and to even imagine doing so now felt like playing with fire.

“I am happy to pay, of course, for your time and expertise.” Raoul continued, the pianist nodding in return to convey his interest. “I think twice a week would be a good place to start. What do you think, Christine?”

The two men turned to her and waited for her answer. “I, I am not sure.” She stammered, feeling her pulse rise into her throat. “I mean, you are a wonderful musician, Monsieur, I just don’t know if I would… I think I would rather…”

Seeing her hesitate Raoul spoke up again, saying that they could discuss it another time and that he looked forward to hearing the musician again later in the week. When the pianist had gone Christine kissed Raoul quickly to silence any questions he might have tried to ask her and told him she was very tired before running off to bed to bury her face in her pillows.

They never did hire the pianist to play for Christine privately, although he did return regularly to play after dinner for the next few weeks. It was not until one evening after dinner, when the pianist had the night off, did Christine learn that Raoul had been stretching the truth for her benefit, this time without her immediately recognizing it.

Philippe sighed at the dinner table, wiping his mouth on a napkin as he leaned back in his chair. “I’ve come to dread these quiet evenings. You have spoiled us, brother! I will admit, I thought that having a musician coming in to play so often was a waste of money, but now I find myself wishing that pianist were here after every meal. I believe I digest so much easier to the sound of his playing.”

Christine saw Raoul’s cheeks flush instantly as he stared down at his plate, knowing that his ruse had been revealed. She had been suspicious that he had actually hired the pianist specifically for her from the beginning, but had not bothered to call him out, as the only damage she could quantify was that to his wallet. She pretended not to notice him trying to sink down in his chair, as though he wanted to disappear under the long tablecloth to hide his shame.

“I have enjoyed it very much as well.” She agreed graciously, hoping to signal to Raoul that he need not be embarrassed. “Though I imagine it is quite expensive. I can play a little myself, not as well as an accomplished pianist, but maybe if you would permit me…”

“Why did you not say so earlier?” Philippe laughed and pushed his chair back from the table. “Come, you must show me. Raoul, are you quite done stabbing at that poor flank?” He said, acknowledging the thick piece of meat his brother had pushed around his plate through the entire meal. “I only have a short while to spend with you both tonight, we can make the best of it.”

Christine moved to stand, expecting Raoul to follow and offer his hand to lead her out of the dining room as he did every night. Instead he remained seated, slouched in his chair, his eyes still fixated on the untouched food on his plate “I think I should retire early tonight.” He mumbled softly, his hair falling down limp across his forehead.

Philippe had already crossed the room to leave and leaned with one hand against the doorframe. “Tired already?” He chided as he rolled his eyes. “Honestly, if you actually tried to eat your supper you might actually start gaining back your strength in a reasonable amount of time. God knows I nearly saw heaven’s gates myself just last month, _and_ I am twenty years your senior, and I’ve managed to recover in less than half the time you’re taking!”

Ignoring Philippe’s badgering, Christine leaned down and laid a hand gingerly across Raoul’s upper back. “Would you like me to walk with you?” She asked, feeling his shallow breaths lift his shoulders before he swallowed hard and shook his head in refusal.

“No, I am fine. Go play for Philippe, I will see you tomorrow.” He said after licking his dry lips and bracing his good hand against the table to push himself up to stand. “Goodnight.”

_“I am fine.”_ Christine parroted in her mind dolefully, watching as Raoul brushed past his brother and disappeared into the hallway without looking back to them. He really was a terrible liar, but she feared that she might only make matters worse by tailing him. Instead she turned to Philippe and they walked together to the lounge, with the Comte stopping along the way to bend down and rub his knee. He complained that the family doctor had him doing stretches every day which made his joints ache, but thankfully stubbornness ran in the family and he had no intention of letting a little pain slow him down.

Christine settled herself at the piano when they reached the lounge, stretching her fingers across the keys to get a feeling for the fine instrument. It was far nicer than any piano she had ever had a chance to play in the past, and although she had heard it played before it was still a pleasant surprise to her how warm and full the notes that rose from the strings were.

“Only a couple of songs should be sufficient for tonight,” Philippe said, leaning back into one of the emerald green high-backed chairs. “I really should be getting myself ready to leave soon, I would not want to keep La Sorelli waiting.”

“You are seeing her tonight?” Christine asked as she slowly began to play an old tune she knew from memory, one that her father had taught her when she was a little girl. It was dark outside, as they had not started dinner until much later than they usually did because Raoul had been slow in waking up from his afternoon nap.

“Yes, I do not usually see her until Friday evening, but I was able to get out of an investment meeting tomorrow afternoon. I will be gone until my usual time on Saturday.” Philippe explained, speaking over the sound of the piano. “Oh, damn. Look at the clock. I am sorry, Christine, your playing is lovely, but I must go freshen up before she arrives.”

Christine was not so naïve as to be unaware of how the Comte spent his weekends. Raoul had told her early in their engagement that Philippe payed for an apartment south of the opera house by the Seine where La Sorelli lived, and that it was a known secret that his brother and the ballerina were lovers. She had asked him why Philippe had taken such a stand against their relationship back then, when the older gentleman himself was no stranger to affairs, to which Raoul scoffed and begrudgingly explained that his brother’s relationship was not technically improper. Philippe had no intention of marrying La Sorelli, and that apparently made their tryst completely respectable, at least in the eyes of the aristocracy. To her knowledge, Raoul did not hold any animosity towards La Sorelli, but given his bitter attitude whenever his brother’s relationship with his mistress was brought up, Christine wondered if Philippe had ever suggested to Raoul that he buy an apartment for _her_.

Philippe’s demeanor towards her had softened significantly since she had moved into the estate, though she could not help but assume that it was mostly for Raoul’s sake. As much as he hounded and chastised his brother for not taking care of himself, Christine could see that Philippe was aware that Raoul was genuinely struggling to get back into the swing of things. He did not seem the type to make a fuss, however, and she figured one of the reasons he allowed her to move into his home before the wedding was because he was grateful that Christine could take up the responsibility of catering to Raoul at a time where he was more needy. Philippe, after all, already had someone else who was actively seeking his affections. 

For a little while after Philippe left her Christine sat at the piano and continued to play, the nameless songs streaming from the muscles in her hands and not her mind. They were simple little melodies, some she remembered sounding much better when they were accompanied by a harmonizing violin. She let the notes fade away mid-song and sat in silence before picking herself up to begin her trek back to her bedroom, hearing the front door of the estate open and close as she approached the foyer to climb the main staircase.

“Christine Daaé, as I live and breathe!” A voice called out when she turned the corner, its tone bright and feminine. Beside the footman who had granted her admittance stood La Sorelli, pulling her colorful shawl off of her shoulders with her long slender arms. “I wondered when you and I would cross paths again.”

While Christine had known La Sorelli for many years, the two of them had hardly ever spoken before. But La Sorelli was not known to be shy, and in the past few months had been giving Christine knowing glances when they passed each other in the halls of the opera, and this was enough for Christine to feel comfortable enough to speak candidly with the ballerina. “As have I. It is nice to see you.” Christine reciprocated with a cordial smile. “The Comte should be down momentarily. I was just on my way to bed.”

“Oh, to bed, you say?” La Sorelli quipped with an incredulous grin. Christine felt her cheeks flush, and La Sorelli reached out and grabbed her arm to shake it in jest. “I am only teasing you. I can do that now, you know. One could say we are sisters, in a way.” She laughed, then placed one of her gloved hands on Christine’s cheek endearingly. “What, with how cozy you are with the Vicomte. Philippe mentioned that you two are planning a wedding for the late summer?”

“Yes, but we have not settled on a date just yet.” Christine answered, her head still swimming from La Sorelli implying that she and Raoul had been sharing a bed. She had thought about it, but with Raoul not feeling well and of course the indecency of it all it simply was not a possibility, and dreaming about the day she would be able to hold him through the night only served to tease her.

La Sorelli pulled a silver hair clip from the back of her head and shook her bundle of blond curls loose over her shoulders. “Well I’m sure I will hear all about it, if not from you then from your soon to be brother-in-law. Speaking of,” She beamed, looking past her as the sound of Philippe’s footsteps made his presence known as he hustled down the staircase. “there you are, finally!”

“My apologies, Violette. We ate supper late.” Philippe said penitently as he took up La Sorelli’s hand, which she had extended out for him to kiss.

“You will have to make it up to me now, making me wait for so long as you have.” La Sorelli smirked, turning her hand to flick her finger under his chin. “Goodnight, my lovely Christine. Do say hello to the Vicomte for me, won’t you?” She winked and led Philippe out of the house, who not so subtly placed his hand low on her hip before the footman could shut the door behind them.

Christine continued on her way back to her bedroom, and when she arrived she closed herself inside in the darkness. The maids usually made there way to her bedroom last to light the gas sconces, but seeing as it was so late Christine was curious as to why they had not been lit already. She fumbled blindly to light the fixture closest to her, her vision aided only by the faint cast of moonlight coming from the tall windows on the opposite side of the room. Not wanting to risk breaking the sconce, which was old and fragile looking with its intricate blown glass bowl, Christine gave up and stepped away, choosing to leave the lamp unlit. The light from the single lamp would not have been enough to read by anyway, and so she decided she may as well go to bed and sleep away her boredom.

She approached her bed, which had been turned down for her already, the layers of sheets and blankets folded welcomingly open and waiting for her to climb in. In the dim light from the window she did not notice anything out of place as she undressed down to her undergarments and crawled over the side of the bed to roll into the center, but as she laid into her pillow she was startled by the feeling of something crinkle into the back of her head. She sat up quickly and spun around to find a folded note set in the center of her pillow, her name written across it in a barely legible script. Although she could hardly see it in the darkness, Christine had a terrible feeling that the letters on the paper had been written in red ink.

Snatching the note off of the pillow Christine slipped out of the opposite side of the bed towards the window, unfolding the paper as she stumbled across the floor to read the message by the light of the stars.

_If there remains any love in your heart for me, come to the gate on the Rue Scribe tomorrow morning. I hope you will not disappoint me._

The note was unsigned, but there was no need. The direct instructions followed by a vague threat were more than enough to establish the identity of the sender. A shockwave of panic rushed from her fingertips through her spine, and Christine involuntarily fell against the windowpane as her legs gave away underneath her.

He was gone. He was _supposed_ to be gone.

She thought again of his last note, the one she refused to look at since she had hidden it away over a month ago. Did it not say that he had left Paris? Her mind raced with questions as she clutched the note in one hand while using her other to drag herself up off of the floor. When did he return, if he had left at all? How did this new note find its way onto her pillow? Surely none of the household staff would have delivered it to her in such a manner, unless perhaps they had been threatened? And what could he possibly want with her now?

When she had finally pulled herself fully upright Christine made a beeline to the bookcase in the corner, yanking the forbidden tome from the shelf to hurriedly flick through the pages to find the old note. She left the book on the shelf and returned to the window to hold the two pieces of paper up beside each other, confirming by the moonlight that they had both been written in the same hand, seemingly with the same pen. She re-read the new note and then turned her focus to the old, stopping at the very beginning as her eyes scanned the line of address on the original letter.

_My Dearest Christine (& Monsieur le Vicomte)…_

Christine felt as though the room had begun to spin as a wave of dread washed over her. Erik had been to the estate that night, possibly even inside. Given how he clearly had no concern for overstepping boundaries set by others or even himself, Christine feared that her Angel may not have been able to resist the urge to pay her fiancé a visit while delivering his note.

In her frenzied state Christine drew back the covers on her bed and pushed the notes far under the blanket before dashing over to the wardrobe by the door to wrap herself in a dressing gown. She was careful not to slam the door to her room as she left, and with a few quick glances back and forth she scurried down the hall, down the flight of stairs to the first floor, then around the corner to the landing. Instead of knocking on Raoul’s door when she arrived, Christine held her breath and swung the door open, her thoughts for courtesy eclipsed by foreboding.


	4. Chapter 4

As Christine thrust herself into the bedroom she was startled to find it fully alight, the gas lamps burning brighter inside than those out in the hallway. She winced and briskly turned towards some movement she caught in her peripheral, a figure at the edge of the bed. She had expected to find spatters of blood, wrecked furniture, and signs of a hard fought battle culminating in a body on the floor, not meant to be discovered until after her Angel had the chance to lure her away again.

Instead, her eyes focused to see Raoul standing shirtless by the footboard, a disconcerted expression on his face as the stout glass he had been holding in his hand plummeted to the ground. It bounced off of the thick plush carpet, sending a decent amount of amber colored liquid up into the air in rebound to splash across his trousers and the linens that messily cascaded over the end of the bed. The glass rolled onto the hardwood in Christine’s direction and she flicked her eyes between it and Raoul in bewilderment as he clutched his damaged hand to his chest. 

“Christine!” he panted, grabbing at one of the carved posts of the footboard to steady himself. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”

She stared at him with her jaw hung open and blinked frenziedly, the contrast between the vision she had held in her mind and the reality of what stood before her making her dizzy. “Raoul, you’re…” She scanned his bare chest first for signs of injury, although the pale skin there was unexplored territory for her and she felt her cheeks growing hot the longer she looked. “You are awake.” She forced herself to spit out, finding that besides being partially naked he was unchanged from when she saw him last.

Raoul crossed his arms across his stomach and squeezed one of his forearms with his good hand. “I am. But Christine,” He said as he took a step towards her, his eyebrows raised in concern. “What are you doing here? You look like you’ve seen a…” He caught himself before finishing his thought and pressed his lips together into a firm frown. “Sorry.”

“No, I am sorry.” Christine sighed, shaking her head at her own foolishness. He must have thought she had finally lost her mind for good, plowing down his door in a manic episode when he had the expectation of privacy. What could she have said that could possibly excuse such behavior? “I thought… I don’t know.” She mumbled, looking down to the glass that had rolled to her feet. She leaned down and picked it up to hand it back to him, being careful not to step on the wet splotches that marked the rug as she closed the space between them.

Taking the tumbler from her, Raoul nodded and turned away. “It’s fine, you don’t have to explain if you don’t want to. As long as you are well.” He walked to his bedside and set the glass on the nightstand before reaching down to pick up the shirt he had worn to dinner off of the ground. As he shook it out Christine traced the lines of the scars down his back, remembering the miserable sounds he had made when Erik dragged him up the rocky shore of the underground lake by his elbow. She wondered if it still hurt him to lie on his back, if that was one of the many pains he still grappled with since their ordeal.

“I am fine.” Christine answered him reflexively. Immediately she chided herself for the lie, recalling how much she loathed hearing the same deflection from him. “Mostly.” She added with reluctance, her desire to be strong for him conflicted with her conscience. “I just wanted to see you, is all.”

Raoul glanced back at her before draping his shirt over his head, the bunched fabric catching on his ear. “It’s getting late.” He said as he tried to push his way through the still mostly-buttoned shirt. One of the sleeves was turned inside out and was impeding his progress, though he did not seem to notice as he struggled to dress himself.

“Here, let me help.” Christine offered, approaching him again with her hands outstretched. He flinched when her fingers grazed the back of his neck, freezing into a stiff position as she gently untangled the rogue sleeve from inside the bundle of fabric at the collar and pulled it into the correct position. “Try now.” She encouraged him to continue. He pushed his hand through one sleeve, then the other, and finally they were able to pull his shirt fully down his torso, covering his scars from view. Raoul turned back to face her once he was dressed, his cheeks pink.

“Thank you.” He muttered, his sunken eyes downcast. His breath drifted down to her then, and although it was subtle, she could smell the faintest amount of liquor. On the nightstand just beside him she also noticed an empty glass decanter sat next to the cup he had set down.

“Was it brandy in that glass?” Christine asked, gesturing to the nightstand. If she had remembered correctly, the doctor had recommended that Raoul not drink for the time being, as it interacted poorly with the medicine he was prescribed. “You haven’t drank that entire bottle since I saw you at dinner, have you?”

When Raoul lifted his head to meet her gaze Christine saw that his eyes were glassy, and she worried that he had done exactly as she feared. “It was brandy, but I hardly had any.” He said, his breath hitting her directly this time. He certainly was not lying about it being brandy. “Just a glass, to help me settle. It’s quite alright, we used to feed it to the feverish sailors by the bottle. It won’t do me any harm.” He explained as he fell back to sit on his unmade bed.

“You are not some sickly sailor, Raoul.” Christine remarked, catching his chin in her hand to lift his eyes back to her. His face was warm in her palm, more so than it should have been. She brushed her hand up his cheek to rest on his forehead, and while he was flushed she could not say for certain if he was feverish. “But you have worried me lately. You hardly ate today, and you have been sleeping so much. Are you sure you are not coming down with something?”

“I am fine, Christine, really,” Raoul began, but before he could continue Christine sighed deeply and rolled her eyes.

“Again with ‘I am fine’.” She groaned, withdrawing her hands to hug herself in frustration. “Please, I cannot stand to hear you say it again.” She spun around on her heel and tucked her chin close to her chest, not wanting him to see just how bothered she was.

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to upset you.” Raoul weakly tried to interject, only to be spoken over again.

“I don’t want apologies, Raoul. I want _you_.” Christine said. The emotions she had taken so much care to shove down were starting to bubble to the surface, causing her heart to pound and tears to burn in her eyes. “I miss you. We have never spent so much time so close to each other, and yet I feel so far away from you.” She turned back to him to find his face contorted with concern, his brow furrowed and mouth left agape.

“How… what can I do to fix that?” He entreated after a moment of silence. Christine noted that he did not argue with her, whether that was because he was too tired to counter her or because he felt the same was unclear. The mass of unspoken words between them only seemed to grow, like an invisible wall that neither of them had the ability to breech, though she hoped that one day they might find the strength to tear it down together. Every choice they made had its consequence, and Christine was determined to not add another single brick to the wall.

“I want to marry you.” Christine declared firmly with a nod, standing tall with conviction. The belt of her robe had loosened since she had frantically tied it on back in her bedroom and she could feel it slowly beginning to drift open, though she did not move to secure it.

Raoul did not appear to notice. “We will be married, in August.” He affirmed, his tone tinged with confusion.

“No, I want to marry you _now_.” Christine clarified, stepping close to him once more to cup his cheek. “I cannot wait until August. I don’t care where we go, to the registrar’s office or some church on the side of the road, so long as we are married as soon as possible.”

“I don’t understand.” Raoul twisted his head out of her grasp and took her hand, lacing her fingers with his own. “You told me the end of August was the ideal time for a wedding.” He pulled her to sit down beside him next to his pillows, and she did so without resistance. “And my family expects a ceremony and a reception. All of the plans are being made, what reason is there to rush?”

The ties of her dressing gown finally gave away and Christine allowed her cover to fall open, unconcerned for decency as she pled for her fiancé’s consent. “Please, I simply cannot wait another day. Marry me, Raoul, it is all I want.” She leaned into him, their thighs touching as her face drifted close to his. Raoul’s eyes finally flicked down from her face to see the hint of her underthings beneath the thin robe, and he swallowed hard before squeezing her hand.

“I don’t know, Christine. I just don’t want you to make a mistake that you will end up regretting.” He wavered, looking away respectfully.

Christine was determined not to allow him to shut her out any longer. “You think I will regret marrying you?” She laughed bitterly, tugging on his hand to make him look back at her. “After everything we have been through together, how could you say such a thing?”

From how close her face was to his Christine could see how cracked and dry the skin of Raoul’s lips were. It was no wonder, the way he licked and bit at them as he floundered for an answer. “Perhaps ‘regret’ is the wrong word. I only mean to say, you…” His eyes searched around like the words he wanted to say were written somewhere on the wallpaper. “We have been through so much. But you have been through more. You deserve to live the life you want, you have seen so much hurt and have come out the other side. And you have been so strong through it all, but…” He forced his hand into his hair, grabbing it at the roots as though to trying stabilize himself before speaking his truth. “Is it possible that there is a chance you are rushing into this because you are afraid you will change your mind? That maybe… maybe you might be tempted to go back?”

It took a moment for his words to make sense in her head, but once they did Christine felt as though she had been plunged into icy water. “Are you saying,” She muttered in a low voice, “that you think I want to marry you now because I am afraid that I will go back to _him_?” She leaned back, shocked that he would dare make such an accusation out of the blue. “You think that I am… using you, somehow?”

“Using me? No, Christine.” He stammered hastily, turning to face her once more. “Believe me, I know you would never, this has nothing to do with me doubting you…”

“What does it have to do with, then?” Christine pressed, more hurt than angry. She could not be angry with him, for although he had no idea Raoul had practically read her mind: she was afraid of going back. Erik was inside her head again, had caused her to panic and fall into a tailspin with no more than a few words scrawled on an unsigned note. The last time she had thought of eloping was when she feared Erik’s wrath after the incident with the chandelier. At the time Raoul was well enough to walk her back from the brink with his marriage proposal, but now he was coming apart at the seams just as badly as she was, if not worse.

Raoul stumbled on his words as he tried to reply, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. This was torture to him, Christine could see, and the guilt of whipping the poor man up into such a state caused her chest to ache. Perhaps this had been Erik’s plan after all, to make them torture each other. If it was, it was a dastardly plan. And it was working.

“It’s alright.” Christine interrupted his waffling, taking his hand back securely. “Forget what I asked, it was not fair of me to push you.”

Raoul sniffed and let out a wavering breath. “No, this is on me. I should not have brought him up, you’ve asked me not to.” He paused and began to rub his thumb over her fingers. “I just… I have never wanted anything more in my life than to be with you. In fact, you may be the singular thing keeping me on this Earth right now.”

“Oh, my love.” Christine replied in an involuntary whisper. “Please don’t say such terrible things.” She raised her other hand to push the hair that had flopped down into his eyes back behind his ear. “You have so many wonderful reasons to live for than just me.”

“If that is so, I have had a hard time seeing them. All I see is you, and even then I am fearful that you might finally realize that I am not worth the trouble.” He answered, his voice falling monotone. “Ever since we reunited I have tried everything I could possibly think of to protect you, but I see now every choice I have made has done nothing but put your safety and happiness in jeopardy.” His expression shifted in a flash from grief to disgust, all of his hate directed inward. Christine squeezed his hand and that seemed to pull him from his fog momentarily, and he gazed down at their joined palms. “I do not deserve you.” He choked out, finally letting the tears from his eyes fall.

Christine felt her own tears begin to drift down her cheeks. “It is not up to you to decide if you are enough for me.” She stated, watching his lips tremble as he stared at their hands. “I am not looking for someone to save me. I need a partner, a companion. Can you do that for me?”

Instead of speaking Raoul sniffed again and dragged his opposite arm across his face to wipe away the dampness. He looked like he was considering her words, but the guilt and doubt grinding away inside of him kept him from answering.

In a moment of instinct Christine did the only thing that she could think to do to comfort him. Leaning into his side purposefully, she pulled her hand out of his and wrapped her arms around his back and across his chest. She pressed her head into his shoulder, and when he turned to steal a glimpse of her face she rushed her lips up to his, catching him in a kiss to force his frown away.

He was unprepared for the assault and gasped against her mouth, but while he did not lean in for more, he did not pull back. His arm found its place behind her back and he brought is braced hand up to rest on her shoulder as he struggled to breathe through tears and snorts. “Christine,” he said wearily, his forehead rolling against hers. “I can’t.”

“I love you.” Christine professed, tasting the remnants of his drink on her lips and in the air between them. “I love you, and you love me. That is enough. It always has been, and always will be.”

Raoul struggled to catch his breath, his shoulders rising and falling sporadically. “I love you.” He managed to shudder out as he clutched for a fistful of her dressing gown at the small of her back. Their faces remained close together, and with a few more brushes of her nose against his cheek Raoul eventually returned her kiss by his own volition, fully embracing her as he did.

They sunk back into the unmade bed as the intimacy of their encounter deepened, turning onto their sides to face each other fully as they laid the wrong way across the bed. Christine did not dare to push on top of him for fear of aggravating one of his injuries, nor did Raoul try to pin her underneath himself. When her back began to ache from lying so strangely with her feet half dangling over the side of the bed, Christine broke their kiss and spoke into Raoul’s hair as he began to kiss her neck.

“Let me stay with you tonight.”

Raoul hesitated on one of his kisses, leaving his lips pressed on the delicate skin under her jaw for a moment before pulling back to look at her. “It wouldn’t be proper.” He said softly, punctuating his thought with a kiss. “The staff will talk.”

“Let them.” Christine quipped, her concern for what was proper far gone. “What does it matter now, since we will be married so soon?”

The kisses Raoul pressed into her neck stopped, and he leaned away fully to look her in the eyes. “You maintain your wish, then? To elope as soon as possible?” He asked directly, this time without conflict.

“I do.” She answered simply. Perhaps it was wrong of her to insist, as she had no intention of revealing to Raoul that her wishes were spurred on by the fear that Erik may very well be waiting for the opportunity to lure her back into his world of never-ending darkness. It crossed her mind to admit her concerns, but as she scanned his features, which had finally begun to relax, she could not find the will to steal this moment of peace from him.

Raoul nodded at her answer, and soon Christine found herself kissing him again. His shirt made its way to the floor, discarded along with the gown that had only served to get in their way, and they maneuvered slowly from on top of the mess of sheets to below them. In the warmth of his embrace Christine allowed her eyes to flutter closed, only to open again at the sound of the door creaking as the quiet feet of a maid shuffled around the perimeter of the room, extinguishing the gas lamps on the walls. Raoul’s breaths had grown slow and steady by then, and Christine hoped that if he dreamed it would be of nothing but love, and that he would wake rested and ready to face the new day with the optimism she knew he was capable of.

For herself, however, she prayed for forgiveness. In her mind she could not find peace, for while she laid safe in Raoul’s arms now, she knew what had to be done. When the sun rose she would slip away, just for a short while, and answer the call of her Angel one final time. It was the only way to stop the fear, the guilt, the endless longing. It was time to close the book and never look back. Finally, she would have peace, but not before one last goodbye.


	5. Chapter 5

Sleeping through the night was not something Raoul had ever mastered. He was a decent sleeper, able to put himself to bed and drift off without too much trouble, but always in the early hours of the morning he would come around and fuss with trying to fall under again. That night when his eyes fluttered open he felt markedly different, for when he stirred his movement was answered by a gentle hug from the pair of slender arms wrapped around his midsection. The warmth of her pressed up against him was intoxicating, from her breath grazing the bare skin of his chest to her soft fingers absentmindedly drawing lines down his back. He could not tell if she was even aware of what she was doing, if the tracings she made down his spine were gestures of love made consciously, but either way he did not stay awake long enough to analyze her. With Christine there he did not need to toss and turn, with her there he did not need to worry. With Christine, he was well.

The thick velvet curtains which blocked out the light in Raoul’s bedroom were still drawn shut when he woke again, unlike how they usually were when he would crawl out of his tangle of sheets close to midday. The staff had become accustomed to discreetly slipping in to tie back the heavy drapes and prop open the windows in the late morning, most likely by the request of Philippe to let out some of the ‘dead air’, as he called it, that would accumulate in the room. His brother probably hoped that the fresh breeze would invigorate Raoul enough to prompt him to drag himself from his bed. It did work on some days, however more often than not the draft from the open window would only cause Raoul to shiver and hunker down deeper into his blankets and curse his brother, until the chill became too much and he was forced to get up.

There was no such need for him to act now, as his room remained sealed to both the air and light of the day outside. As Raoul blinked the sleep out of his eyes he noticed that he was alone, the only evidence that he had shared his bed the night before being that he laid close to the edge of the mattress instead of the center where he normally rested. He sat up with a groan and reached blindly across himself towards the nightstand, feeling for the drawer pull. After shuffling around a few knickknacks he finally grasped at the old pocket watch he knew to be rolling around there, and held it close to his face to read the time.

It was no wonder his room was still dark; if the watch was correct it was only half past six in the morning. Rarely ever did he see this time of day since coming to live in Paris, and he was quite surprised to be feeling lucid at such an early hour. He wondered if Christine’s presence had been the reason why he felt so rested, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the thought that he likely would not need to twist her arm to have her spend the night with him again. While one night of bliss might not have been enough to fully convince him that he was worthy of loving her, it was hard for him to deny that she loved him. He did not understand it, but he decided that he would never doubt her again. People got hurt when he doubted her last, and he would not be able to live with himself if his negligence were ever to be the cause of her being hurt again.

Raoul arched his back, trying to stretch away the stiffness in his joints as he thought of how he could make good on the promise he had made to Christine the night before. His first thought was to consult Philippe, even though he knew his brother would scoff at the news and likely try to convince him to slow down. Philippe would not understand or be happy about the sudden change of plans, but he did not have to be, so long as he would agree to stand as witness to the marriage, which Raoul was nearly certain he would. The older gentleman could disapprove all he wanted but in the end Raoul knew that his brother would climb mountains to see him well again.

Marrying Christine would be a massive step in the direction of that goal, and Raoul was eager to turn the page on this chapter of his life and start fresh. Maybe they would leave Paris, find somewhere new to put down roots and grow together. He was not sure if Christine was interested in having children, as they had not spoken of such things since they were young, when they would lay on the beach and stare at the clouds and talk about the future of their fantasy selves. Back then Raoul had said he would like to have two or three children, at least one boy and one girl, and his opinion had not changed much on the matter. He liked to think of all of the things he would teach them, how he would spoil them with gifts and attention, and watch them play while he and his wife sat on the porch of their summer home on the shore. It was a future worth striving for, and one that was only a few vows away from being his. Now was the time for action: the sooner he got up and started making plans, the sooner he could marry Christine and finally make his dreams a reality.

A few more minutes ticked by on the pocket watch in his fist as Raoul yawned and attempted to persuade his aching bones to sit upright. In that time he heard footsteps out in the hallway, something he was not used to hearing from the comfort of his bed. When he finally lurched himself forward to plant his feet on the ground he looked to his bedroom door to see that it had been left open, the light from the windows in the hall hardly bright enough to slip inside. Christine must have left it open when she left, he reasoned, and did not think anything of it as he stood and shuffled to the wall which separated his room from the lounge next door.

He knocked on the wood panel there and waited for a knock back, a ritual he had established with his valet some time ago to announce that he was ready to start the day. When no sound reverberated through the wall in response Raoul knocked again, wondering if he had indeed read the watch he had left in his sheets correctly. It was early, but not so early that his valet should not be ready and waiting for him. Admittedly it had been over a month since Raoul had been up in the morning, but his valet was being paid to be attentive on his regular schedule and should have answered him.

For a third time Raoul knocked. “Antoine?” He called into the wall, resting his hand against the wood. The silence from the other side persisted, and Raoul made up his mind not to wait any longer. On the floor he found the trousers he had kicked off during the night, and he grabbed them along with his wrinkled shirt as he turned to sit on his bed to begin dressing himself. After slinging his shirt around his shoulders he pulled up his trousers and sat back down to fumble with the buttons, the stiff fingers of his left hand still making the task difficult.

With his focus drawn downwards Raoul did not notice the movement on the other side of the room, drifting silently in the dark, close to the opposite wall. It was not until just after he had fastened the last button on his trousers that he heard a noise and looked up, the click of the door’s hardware as it was shut drawing his eyes to a shadow standing in the corner. Raoul opened his mouth and drew in air to speak, but before he could the shadow held up a finger in warning and spoke first.

“If you intend to call for help, I would advise against it. Any person who steps through this door will be met with a swift death, should we be interrupted.”

Although the voice was not one he had known for long, Raoul was devastatingly certain to whom it belonged. “Phantom.” He croaked, the act of speaking the alias of the man he still saw in his nightmares burning like acid on his lips. “What are you doing here?” His question came out as a stammer, flagrantly showcasing how startled he was.

The man in the mask lingered in the corner, casually loosening the fingers of his leather gloves one at a time. “Do you mean to ask why I have returned to Paris?” The Phantom inquired cooly, releasing one of his hands. “Or why I have come to your bedroom? Well, I suppose that does not matter, as the answer is the same.”

Raoul stood up cautiously, his heart pounding in his ears. There was little around him that he could use to defend himself, and the chest of drawers where his revolver was hidden was on the other side of the room, close to where the Phantom stood. His only escape would be off of the balcony, but climbing over the ledge would mean falling an entire story down onto a stone patio, if he was even quick enough to unlatch the door before the Phantom could catch him. As the Phantom stepped forward, a fall ending in a broken leg or two seemed far more appealing than whatever the Ghost had planned for him.

“Your note said you would leave us in peace.” Raoul dredged up the courage to say.

The Phantom shrugged. “That letter was written under duress, I’m afraid. And is a man not allowed to come to change? You yourself have changed quite significantly since we last met, Vicomte.” He pocketed his single glove and left his hand there, feeling some other object hidden in his coat. “Such pallor in your face, and the weakness of your voice. A mere shadow of the boy who once thought himself a hero.”

While his insulting observations were not entirely inaccurate, Raoul gritted his teeth and allowed the anger bubbling in his stomach to seep into his words. “You appear to be the same monster you have always been.” He growled, clenching his good hand into a fist. “If you had any bit of humanity in you, you would not have broken into my home to intimidate me and my family.”

With a quick flourish, the Phantom pulled a scrap of black fabric from his pocket and transferred it to his gloved hand. “There is no reason to fear for your loved ones, Monsieur. I have made certain they would not be here for this.” Returning to his pocket, he withdrew a dark vial with a glass stopper, which he adeptly removed with his free hand. He placed the scrunched fabric scrap over the bottle and shook it a few times. “Your brother is occupied with his ballerina, and most of your staff are busy tending to some… situations that have arisen. I do hope none of your servants take to sleeping in the storehouse by the stables, it went up in flames far quicker than I had anticipated.”

Raoul watched with wide eyes as the Phantom squeezed the rag in his gloved hand, approaching him still with calculated intensity. “Someone will hear. Christine…”

“Is far from here by now, I assure you. Of course, I did not forget her.” The Phantom answered smugly, stepping close enough now to make Raoul stagger back. “I watched her leave this morning, in one of your carriages. She is safe, and I will see to it that she remains as such.”

Raoul paced backwards until his heels hit the wall. As the Phantom closed in on him he stood up as tall as he could, angling his chin up in hopes of manifesting what little tenacity he had left to stand up against his unwavering foe. “Do what you will, then. I will not beg for my life, if that is what you are after.”

Beneath the mask, Raoul saw the Phantom’s lips curl into a wry smile. “Your fortitude is truly inspiring, Vicomte. I wonder how long it will last.”

The gloved hand struck his mouth with force enough to slam Raoul’s head back against the wood panelling of the wall, causing starbursts to form behind his closed eyes well before the substance on the rag began to take effect. With a haggard breath Raoul swallowed the noxious fumes from the cloth, the burning sensation in his nose and throat forcing him to cough and wheeze before his legs gave out underneath him. The Phantom guided him safely to the floor, throwing the fabric aside as Raoul felt the sensation of nausea begin to gurgle in his stomach, and the Ghost turned him on his side just fast enough to allow him to spit up the bile that rose into his mouth. Unable to catch his breath, Raoul’s vision grew dark, the last sight to cross his eyes being a flash of the Phantom's white porcelain mask as he leaned in to lift him from the ground.


	6. Chapter 6

“Pathetic child.” Erik muttered scornfully as he dropped the Vicomte’s unconscious body onto the nearby bed. In his inattentiveness he allowed Raoul’s head to knock against the solid wood of the footboard with a dull thump, and Erik merely rolled his eyes as he pushed and pulled the boy’s body around on the sheets to prepare to lift him more effectively. The concoction from the vial had worked well enough, and it would take more than a jolt to the head to wake Raoul for at least an hour, but that would leave him plenty of time. With a bit of finesse and artful arrangement of some well curated paraphernalia he would be on his way, just in time to meet Christine. He calculated that she was likely just arriving at the gate, and by the time he made it to the street behind the opera house she would have been kept waiting long enough to make her emotional before he would reveal himself. The conditions would be perfect, and her mind would again be malleable enough for him to stake his claim once more.

Resisting the urge to deviate from his plan was far more difficult than he had anticipated, Erik realized as he stood over the young man who laid before him in such a vulnerable state. All that needed to be done to rid himself of the Vicomte would be to lean over and press the boy’s trachea closed for a few minutes and he would never wake again. Without even breaking a sweat Erik could ensure that he would never have to witness the love of his life turn from him to fall into the embrace of this presumptuous young fool again, but of course the cost of so sweet a notion would be far higher than the reward. Raoul had said it himself before, should he die under mysterious circumstances there would be no other to blame but the Ghost, and so for the time being Erik’s hands were tied. The aspiration of removing the Vicomte entirely from both his and Christine’s lives was not entirely lost, of course, but simply required a more nuanced approach, something Erik was thankfully wise and determined enough to undertake.

As he considered how he might hoist Raoul’s body up on his shoulder to carry the young man out of the room, the features of the boy’s face scrunched and he groaned quietly, causing Erik to pause and question if he should give the boy another dose, just to be safe.

“It is finished.”

Erik flinched, forgetting for a moment his alliance with the voice which spoke to him from the doorway. With his scowl still aimed down at the drugged Vicomte, he answered and curled a finger in the direction of the disturbance. “Bring it here, then.”

The door was shut again before his accomplice approached, offering up a folded letter with a red seal stamped in the center to keep it shut. “I told you, he does not keep black wax on hand. It would be in the Comte’s study, which I doubt he would go through the trouble to procure…”

“Fine, it hardly matters, so long as it is closed with his seal.” Erik said as he took the note to scrutinize it. Flipping it over, he found the front inscribed with the names of the Comte and his dear Christine in the Vicomte’s handwriting. “It should be convincing enough. I see you have his luggage, have you brought the contracts as well?”

“Here, in this pouch. They are all signed and complete, Mademoiselle Daaé will need only present them to the landlord to be given the key.”

“There will be no need for that, the documents must simply be valid. Put them on the desk.” Erik gestured to Raoul’s small writing desk by the liquor cabinet while stepping back, looking down at the compact leather bag of Raoul’s belongings that had been left by his feet. “We shall see just how fastidious you have been in your work in the hours to come, Antoine. Should our endeavors not go undetected, I imagine you will find it quite difficult to place the blame on a phantom.”

As Antoine turned back from laying the envelope of documents on the writing desk, the terror in his eyes took precedence over his flushed face. “I have done all that you asked.” The man stated, his tone faltering with fear. “You will leave my wife and I in peace now?”

“You have done well so far, I will admit.” Erik acknowledged, digging through his pocket to replace the glove he had removed earlier. “Rest assured that I will keep my word, but there is more still to do. Take the luggage, I will carry the boy.”

The Vicomte’s valet swallowed and nodded dejectedly. “I will go ahead of you, to ensure the path is clear.”

Their passage out of the house was quick and uncomplicated, and before long they escaped from a side door of the estate to the carriage waiting there, one which Erik had lifted from the rotunda of the opera house just before dawn. Erik laid Raoul down on the floor of the cabin before taking a seat inside, while Antoine settled himself up on the driver’s perch. With a crack of the reigns the valet urged the horse swiftly off of the estate’s driveway, unseen by anyone who might have reason to think that anything was out of the ordinary.

The streets were quiet so early in the morning, the only residents of the city out and about at those hours being those absorbed in their own responsibilities. Erik peeked through the drawn curtains of the carriage window to see those few citizens of Paris sleepily going about their business and imagined how someday perhaps he would ask Christine to go on a morning stroll with him, once the Vicomte was no longer in the picture. In these quiet hours of the day he could wear his prosthetic and walk in the light like any other man, the woman he loved on his arm, and for once he could finally have just a taste of what life should be like.

He would always have to make compromises to fit in, and a part of him could not let go of the feeling that all of his hard work may end in ruin like it always did. The pessimist inside of him nagged that it was all just an impossible dream, but when he envisioned his future with Christine it was always in Paris. As he closed his eyes he could imagine hearing the bustle of the city just outside the window of their sun soaked apartment, where the smell of fresh baked pastries drifted up from the cafes below, and the sounds of Christine crooning the refrain of some old song he only ever heard her sing while in absentminded bliss echoed from their bedroom as she dressed. Was it so much to ask for a good life, a simple life?

Erik was pulled from his own thoughts as he felt Raoul beginning to struggle at his feet. The Vicomte’s eyes barely fluttered open as his consciousness was slowly being restored, and before Erik could react the boy extended his folded knees to press his heels into the bottom of the carriage door. The door creaked and bent outward, and when Erik reached down to swat the boy’s legs back the Vicomte suddenly reached out across himself and grabbed Erik’s wrist. As if by instinct Erik yanked his arm back to release himself, then lunged forward on top of the young man, using one hand to steady himself, the other pinning Raoul to the floor by his throat.

“Consider your position, boy.” Erik hissed, mindful not to speak too loudly. The carriage continued onward, jostling both of them uncomfortably between the seats of the cabin.

As he peered into the Vicomte’s eyes, he could see that the young man was hardly maintaining awareness, the drug still taking its toll on him. He fought to take in a breath before letting his limbs relax submissively in defeat. Erik shoved himself off of the boy and returned to his seat, while Raoul stared up at the roof of the cabin in a daze. For the rest of the short journey Erik kept a close eye on the boy and did not draw the curtain open again to look outside, his thoughts now consumed with how to best deal with the Vicomte upon their arrival.

When the carriage came to a stop Erik waited for Antoine to dismount before reaching for the handle of the carriage door. “Sit up.” He ordered Raoul as he leaned forward over the young man.

Raoul’s eyes flicked over to meet his before returning to their focus point on the ceiling. “I can’t.” He said dryly, his voice hoarse. “Do you really believe I would have laid here at your feet if I were able to sit up on my own?”

Erik sighed. The drug may have failed to keep the Vicomte unconscious, but at least it had worked as an effective muscle relaxant. For now, it had to be enough, and he made a mental note to pay the pharmacist who had provided him with the ingredients for his concoction a visit in the future.

“Keep quiet, unless you wish to be gagged.” Erik warned as he opened the carriage door to find Antoine waiting outside anxiously. From the nervous look of his unwilling accomplice, and the bitter, fractious energy radiating from his prisoner, Erik pondered if it would serve him best to gag Raoul anyway, to save himself some trouble down the line. Time was not on his side at the moment, however, and he instead slipped out of the carriage while Antoine stepped away to run up the stairs on the side of the building they had stopped beside, opening the door at the top of the steps.

Erik pulled Raoul from the carriage by his legs and leaned down to hoist the young man up onto his shoulder. He turned and marched directly up the stairs, hoping that no one would happen to turn down the little side street to catch him in the act of moving his victim to his new prison. The Vicomte huffed and grunted as he was being carried, but otherwise kept quiet as he was told. Whether that development was by account of the drug or that the boy had finally wised up to his situation Erik did not care, as he had little time to spare on the boy when Christine was likely growing impatient of waiting for him by now.

“The second room on the left has a bed where you can lay him.” Antoine said as Erik passed him at the threshold, before closing the door behind them both. “The rope is there as well.” 

Erik continued on to the room, ignoring the woman who stood by the stove in the kitchen who stared at him in bewilderment as he passed by. While Antoine stayed behind to speak some hushed words to the woman, Erik let himself into the room and dropped Raoul onto the aforementioned bed, the too small sheets pulling free from the corners of the mattress and crumpling around Raoul’s inert body.

As he had been informed, a few lengths of cord were coiled on the floor beside the bed. Erik pulled one from the pile and pushed Raoul over onto his stomach to secure the Vicomte’s hands behind his back, tying the thin, twisted rope tightly with little regard to the boy’s comfort.

“I will be back for you later, until then I should expect you to remain as quiet as you have been.” Erik said as he tied the final knot. He pulled Raoul back around by the shoulder to see his face, unsurprisingly finding the boy glaring back at him with hate in his eyes.

“You are going after Christine.” He stated with certainty as he shifted uncomfortably atop of his tied hands, barely able to lift his weight off of them on his own. “She won’t go with you,” He grunted has he rolled onto his side. “she hates you.”

Erik rolled his eyes, and before he stood up to leave he considered the ragged sheet on which the Vicomte laid. “Forgive me if I do not believe the words of a drunkard.” He said dismissively as he began to tear a long, thick strand of fabric from the sheet. “Christine told me herself she did not hate me, in fact, quite the opposite.”

“She was desperate. She would have said anything to be free of you.” Raoul countered, fighting weakly against his restraints with little success.

With a snap of his wrist Erik pulled the long scrap of cloth free and began to twist it into a thick gag. “How little you know of your own fiancé, Monsieur.” He jeered. “Though I suppose I can relate to your anguish, I too know the pain of the object of your affections being in love with another.”

“You don’t even know what love is!” Raoul snarled as loudly as he could, although in his current state it was hardly enough to be heard beyond the closed door.

Before Raoul could continue shouting, Erik pulled the gag across the Vicomte’s lips, tugging it tightly until Raoul opened his mouth and the fabric slipped past his teeth. “How can you be so sure?” Erik challenged as he tied the gag firmly in place. “What makes your love any more valid than mine? Do you fall asleep thinking of her? Would you do anything for her, give her the world on a silver platter if you could? Are you willing to give your life for her? Then you are no different than I.”

Raoul attempted to answer, mumbling unintelligibly against the gag as Erik stood up to leave. Still weakened by the drug he was unable to shift himself to watch as Erik moved to the door, his only way of showing his dissent being to protest in muffled vocalizations.

“We can speak more of that later. Until then, I suggest you take this time to rest.” Erik said as he turned away and shut the door behind himself.


	7. Chapter 7

With a strong gust of wind, a deep chill ran through Christine’s body, forcing her to press her back up against the stone of the opera house’s exterior wall to avoid the sting of the cold. She tugged the shawl draped over her shoulders tighter around her shivering form in hopes of shielding herself from the breeze that gusted between the tall buildings which flanked the Rue Scribe, and the terrible draft almost made her wish that she had chosen to wear one of the newer frocks which Raoul had stocked her closet with. Instead of dressing herself in the finery of the upper class she had opted to wear one of her own day gowns, an old piece not too threadbare to be unacceptable, but still no match for such weather. Her decision to dress plainly and as closely to the life she knew before came out of both pity and worry of the man she now anxiously waited for, not wanting to upset him any more than necessary given the news she wished to relay to him, in what she planned to be their final meeting.

As the minutes ticked by, the sky grew darker and only added to her unease. It had been such a strange spring so far, unseasonably dry and far warmer than any in recent history, though she only took note that such weather was peculiar in these months for this country by how Raoul complained of the dusty air, and that the gardens were terribly sad compared to years past. She had been so absorbed in her own troubles recently that only now, with what felt like an eternity of strife finally seeming to be at its end, was she able to recognize the world continuing to move and change around her. The storm blowing in from the clouds overhead looked to promise a heavy rain, and with her Angel being nowhere to be seen Christine wondered if some greater force was urging her to reconsider her choices.

She could wait a while longer to meet the man with death’s face, the ghost who occupied every shadow in her mind and made her heart swell and break in the most dangerous, beautiful, and symphonic exercise of life she had ever experienced. To stay would mean risking being swept up in his storm again, and how fitting it would be for him to arrive to find her drenched from a sudden squall of long anticipated rain.

But if she walked away now, his torrential influence would have no opportunity or foothold to pull her back down into the darkness. Now that she knew who and what he truly was, that he was not some spectre sent from a realm beyond, but simply a man with no more power than what she was willing to forfeit, she had a chance to begin anew.

The sweet temptation of freedom, along with the disquieting winds, were impossible in that moment for Christine to ignore. With a whisper of a prayer of forgiveness she gathered her skirts and marched away from the wall, heading up the carriage ramp to re-enter the opera house. Leaving Erik behind again, this time without so much as a tearful glance, weighed heavy on her broken heart. She took one final peek behind herself to see if his shadow had arrived by the iron gate which led to his domain, but when no such apparition appeared she turned away and took in a long, cleansing breath. As she exhaled, she imagined with it went her guilt and fear, and though it was slight, for a moment she felt at peace.

Just as she reached the top of the ramp and was close to slipping inside, a dark carriage clattered up the opposite side, circling the inclined drive at an alarming speed before coming to stop only an arms length away from where she stood. Christine leapt back as the horse tied to the front of the carriage stomped its hooves and shook out its mane energetically, and she looked up at the coachman to ask him if he had even cared that she could have been trampled by his reckless driving. Before she could speak, however, the door to the carriage swung open and revealed its passenger, startling Christine as he stepped out and reached for her arm eagerly.

“Mademoiselle Daaé!”

Christine blinked in confusion for a moment as she collected herself, focusing on the tan-skinned, eccentric looking gentleman who clutched her upper arm with unmannerly force. She finally recognized him as the same man who had been hers and Raoul’s salvation not all that long ago, who had spoken to the Opera Ghost with surprising familiarity and dauntless authority, and whose name escaped her now.

“I… hello, Monsieur.” Christine stammered out, leaning back in an attempt to release herself from his grip.

The Persian man noticed her recoil and released her, holding up his hand apologetically as he nodded. “Forgive my impudence, Mademoiselle. I am just… profoundly surprised to find you here.”

“Is it so strange to find a chorus member at her place of employ?” Christine replied, concerned that this man whom her Angel had once called a friend would begin to ask her questions she did not have the strength of mind or spirit to answer.

“No, I suppose not.” The man conceded, though his brow remained furrowed. “Although, I had thought when we last parted that you would not be returning to the company, given the circumstances.”

Clenching her jaw and angling up her chin, Christine hoped to give off an air of confidence and legitimacy, when in reality she felt like this man could see through her lies like a pane of glass. “You are not wrong, Monsieur. I have only returned to collect some personal items I left behind.” The wind howled strongly just then, dragging her hair across her face and brushing the unravelling hem of her dress up her leg.

Christine could feel her composure being carried off in the wind as she tried to tame her hair and skirts, while the man eyed her in both pity and skepticism. “Of course. I do not wish to keep you, Mademoiselle.” He said, gesturing towards the doors of the opera house. She followed him to the entrance and he held the door open for her as she scuttled inside, releasing her tight grip on her shawl and skirts once she was finally safe from the relentless harassment of the swirling menace outside. “I must ask you one more question, however.”

The peace which Christine had known for such a brief moment seemed like a distant memory now, as she anticipated the Persian man’s question with grievous accuracy.

“Have you been in contact with Erik recently?”

Hearing his name out loud, his real name, the name of the ghost which penetrated her soul but who in reality was nothing but a man by the name of Erik, caused Christine’s heart to pound in her chest. Her face, despite all of this, she managed to keep stoic.

She had made her decision, and she was done with goodbyes. Her mind and soul belonged to her and her alone.

“No. I haven’t.”

The Persian man’s face fell slightly as though disappointed, but he quickly caught himself in a show of restraint. “That is likely for the best.” He said, mostly under his breath. “I must ask though, should you hear from him, that you would take care to let me know. For all of our sakes.”

Christine nodded, looking past the Persian and down to the marble floor. Tears threatened to escape from the corners of her eyes, but she held them back with a tightly clenched jaw.

“Farewell, Mademoiselle.” The Persian man said as he bowed his head before returning to his carriage, which departed from the ramp at a much more acceptable pace compared to before. Christine laced her hands in front of herself and watched it until she could no longer see the roof, then finally turned from the doors to make her way back through the grand halls of the now mostly uninhabited Opera Populaire to the main entrance.

Outside, in front of the main facade of the once bustling opera house, a carriage belonging to the Chagny’s waited for her, its driver believing that she had all this time been collecting some precious trinkets she had left behind in her dressing room. It had finally begun to rain and she had barely ducked inside and sat down before the coachman hurriedly urged the horses on. She only realized that she had in fact left the opera house empty handed once they were well on their way back to the estate, and she hoped that the coachman had been distracted enough by the inclement weather not to notice.

The carriage finally slowed after making its final turn onto the long, tree lined driveway, and Christine wondered if perhaps Raoul had found his way out of bed to begin making arrangements for their immediate elopement. While she longed for liberation from the ghosts of her past, at present, doubt still lingered in the pit of her stomach and she could not yet envision herself being completely indomitable in the face of her demons in the longterm without Raoul’s help. If Erik was the storm, Raoul was her port of refuge, welcoming her home after she had drifted too far out into unfriendly seas. He was imperfect and battered, but also familiar and nonjudgemental. He was her home, and she hoped now to finally have a future worth looking forward to in his safe harbor. 

As they approached the grand house, Christine noticed an unusual fog beginning to gather outside of the window of the carriage, thick enough to begin to obstruct her view. It billowed past with the wind, and when they finally emerged from the driveway’s gauntlet of trees the carriage came to a halt, still far from the front steps of the estate. In curiosity Christine did not wait for the coachman to step down to open the door for her, instead pushing it open herself only to breathe in a mouthful of fumes which were puffed into the cabin by the rushing wind.

Christine coughed and winced her burning eyes, and covering her mouth with her elbow she turned to see the massive estate surrounded by a thick cloud of smoke. Flames appeared to dance in the 2nd and 1st story windows of the rooms on half of the house, the furthest corner on that side already smoldering with blackened ash, indicating a fast, merciless burn. Christine could do nothing but stare, her body and mind paralyzed, until in a horrific moment of realization thought of how she had left Raoul that morning, heavily asleep in his bedroom on the same side of the house which had already been destroyed by the progressing inferno.

A crowd of household staff were gathered on the lawn upwind from the suffocating cloud of wafting smoke, seemingly unbothered by the rain as they held and consoled each other while watching the catastrophe unfold. Christine ran to them and pushed through the crowd, searching for the sleep-tousled mop of sandy blonde hair of her fiancé, hoping the worst she would find would be him in an embarrassing state of undress, bewildered but alive. From edge to edge of the cluster she scanned for him but came up empty handed, until she was halted by someone wrapping their fingers around her forearm to catch her attention.

“Miss Daaé! There you are!” The kindly old maid who tidied her room daily sighed, bringing her hand up to cup Christine’s cheek in affection. “Thank heavens you are here.”

“I told you she left the house this morning.” The young footman chimed in, his face dirty with a smudge of ash. “And the Vicomte, he must have just come back as well.”

Christine felt her stomach drop. “Raoul did not leave with me this morning.” She croaked, watching as the color drained from the faces of the maid and footman. “Have you not seen him? Did he not make it outside?”

The staff immediately around them began to babble all at once in alarm, the panic of those who may have perished in the fire spreading like a shockwave through the crowd which made Christine’s head begin to spin. She felt her ears starting to ring, her knees wobbling beneath her threatening to give out and dump her miserable body to the ground. Just as her vision began to fade, she felt herself encompassed by a pair of strong arms from behind, which led her away from the crowd to a carriage stationed back on the driveway.

“Christine?”

Her eyes focused and she turned to find the Comte de Chagny eyeing her cautiously, his hands hovering on either side of her to catch her if she were to fall. While she felt less like she was going to faint after being removed from the panicking mob, she still was only able to catch a few words which the Comte sputtered at her.

“…my brother? Christine, have you seen Raoul?”

She shook her head. Smoke blew into her eyes again and she rubbed her face sloppily, her hands shaking and feeling like they belonged to someone else.

Philippe called out for a member of the staff to stand by her, and he said something firmly to her which she did not understand before jogging away towards an approaching gang of uniformed men who dragged a heavy wooden cart with a loud tolling bell. Christine leaned back against Philippe’s carriage and watched the fire continue to crawl across the estate, its progress somewhat slowed by the now pouring rain. She swallowed hard and in defeat she accepted that it would not be long before the entire house was lost, her hopes for freedom and a future where she ruled as mistress of herself fallen victim to misfortune’s insatiable hunger.


	8. Chapter 8

Of all the ways by which one could suffer, Raoul was convinced that choking was by far the worst. To wake to the feeling was distinctly terrifying, as he barely even recalled slipping into unconsciousness after the Phantom had left him last. While being strung up on a rope by the throat was decidedly more painful, being slowly suffocated by the gag tied tightly across his mouth was no less horrible. The sensation of being asphyxiated by his own spit was not only tortuous but humiliating, as he needed only sit up and lean forward to stop it. However the weight of his fatigued body and the added difficulty of having his arms tied yet again behind his back made the simple maneuver almost impossible, and Raoul was left with no option but to gag helplessly and hope that this misery would soon come to an end.

The drug the Phantom had used on him was a wicked one indeed, to leave him with just enough consciousness and wit to torment him with half-lucid thoughts while also incapacitating him to the point where he feared he might swallow his own tongue. Between his futile coughs and ineffective rustling Raoul could hear the shuffling of feet and whispers beyond the closed door not far from where he laid, and in his daze he recalled that he had heard what he thought was the voice of his valet giving direction to the Phantom when they had arrived in this place. He could not be certain that it had been Antoine, as he did not have the strength to lift his head to see the Phantom’s accomplice at the time, but it unfortunately was not an illogical conclusion. It would explain how the Phantom was able to slip into his home undetected, and how he would have known when to approach Raoul when he was alone and at his most vulnerable. What troubled him most was to think of how long this plan had been in action, and how he had been so foolishly blind to the Phantom’s trickery yet again.

Hatred for the ghost now corrupted his every thought, making his head pound while he fought to breathe. This could not be how he met his end, laying on his back, drowned by his own inadequacies. He could not manage to control his muscles enough to sit up, but perhaps if he were to summon enough strength for one good shove, he could roll himself off of the bed and onto his stomach, which would be enough to at least keep him from suffocating.

_This is all wrong_, Raoul thought, his chest burning. Never mind his own shortcomings, they were nothing compared to all that was terrible about the Phantom. Fury made his face feel hot, and he strained to gather a deep enough breath to fuel his next move. He could not allow the Phantom to win, not after everything he had done to him, and to Christine.

Raoul closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, and with everything he had he heaved his body over his own left shoulder and off the side of the bed, landing face down onto the planks of the floor. His next breath hurt him fiercely in his ribs, as he had landed with little grace or control and most definitely bruised or cracked something in his torso on impact, but more importantly he no longer felt like he was choking. His relief was not long lasting, however, as his mind was still corrupted with contempt. _This is wrong! That bastard should be the one to suffer, not me!_

The whispering from the other room came to a stop for a moment after his fall, and Raoul listened intently as the doorknob clinked and jiggled as though someone had taken hold of it from the other side. Some more hushed speech followed before the doorknob was released again, leaving the door shut while the voice turned to a woman’s muffled sobbing. Whomever his captors were, they did not sound to be so eager to be his jailer. Raoul felt his heart sink in realization that they were likely under near as much duress as he was, just the newest set of pawns caught in an impossible game invented by the Phantom. They would not be able to aid in his escape, unless they wished to risk all that was precious to them to defy the Phantom and be his hero.

There was no reward for heroism with such an enemy. Raoul’s lips curled around the gag as he bit down on the shredded fabric in malice. The Phantom did not play fairly, and how could a man dare to even hope to be heroic against such a villain? Were this Phantom… this “Erik”, as he had heard Christine call him in the cavern below the opera house, even the slightest bit reasonable he could challenge him formally, but the man behaved like a ghost. While he knew the truth, Raoul still at times wondered if Erik truly was human and not some evil apparition sent to torment them for some sins they had since long forgotten. But even in such a ridiculous fantasy Erik's deeds made no sense, for there was no world in which Christine could ever deserve his horrendous mistreatment.

What did Christine even see in him? She had told Raoul little about her relationship with her teacher before they were captured in his lair, and even less afterward, and though he tried to be understanding for Christine’s sake his patience was running short. Never in his life had Raoul experienced such focused disdain for another, and perhaps had it not been for Christine’s attachment to Erik, Raoul may have taken some sort of extreme action to rid them of that evil man’s curse of existence long ago.

As much as he hated Erik, nothing compared to how greatly Raoul despised the person he himself had become because of him. In the past few months he had gone from a man full of youthful energy to a sickly drunk, swallowing his pain and pushing away those who tried to care for him. He was fearful and anxious, jealous and judgmental, and possessed nearly all of the traits he attributed to the man he thought to be his opposite.

Still bound and laying helplessly on his stomach, Raoul wriggled and winced from the pain that radiated throughout his body. He laid his forehead to the ground and tried to settle his breath, but as he closed his eyes his anger melted away to despair. Instead of a calming inhale his next breath sputtered out of him as a choked sob, reflecting the reality which in his anger he had refused to acknowledge.

He was not a man made for confrontation. Even if the world were to somehow fall back in time to when he first learned of the Phantom and the threat he posed to Christine, Raoul was simply no match to Erik’s conniving and relentless nature, and even knowing what he did now he stood little chance to make a difference. He was not an aggressor, but a protector, and his focus would always fall to Christine, leaving him blind to all other danger. He was nothing but a fool who never learned, only ever influenced by the thrum of his heart over the logic of his own mind or the advice of those wiser around him. And perhaps his heart had helped him survive this long, but what sort of existence was this? And what good did it ever do for Christine?

_Christine_.

As he lifted his head, Raoul felt as though the floor had begun to tilt and the walls seemed to expand and contract with the cycle of his lungs. Whether it was an effect of the drug wearing off or his own mind sending him into a frenzy he was uncertain, but the sudden flood of thoughts and emotions washing over him were invigorating. 

Raoul was not a hero. He was not particularly strong or cunning, and perhaps the material things he had to offer were not what Christine truly needed or wanted. He could not fight for her, enchant her with music that fed the artistic longing in her soul, or mystify her with worlds unknown. But he could love her. He _did_ love her, and from her own lips he had heard her say that she in fact loved him too.

Raoul’s love for her was what motivated him beyond all else. It was what convinced him to stay in Paris, instead of further pursuing his career in the Navy. It drove him to spend every moment he could at the opera house, though he could hardly avoid being constantly pestered to open his purse nearly every time he set foot in its glittering halls. Love had kept him awake on countless nights, staring at the ceiling as he rehearsed what he might say to Christine to convince her to spend the afternoon with him, so that they could laugh over memories of their shared childhood and he could revel in her kind smile, all the while hoping that she would someday love him even half as much as he knew he would for the rest of his days.

He was not going to get anywhere by fighting. He was a lover, through and through, and though the Phantom’s game goaded him to act with ferocity, that simply was not who he was. It was likely one of the reasons why Christine loved him, he thought, and to act in a manner so oppositional to the way she knew him to be would dishonor Christine and the choice she made to be with him. 

Warmed by that realization, Raoul’s next thought pained him deeply. While he knew Christine loved him, he was also well aware that her ability to forgive was unrivaled. Despite everything that had happened, he knew that she would likely find some way to make room in her heart for Erik as well. And as a lover, he most certainly could not stand to fight her on her choice, but how could he live with the knowledge that that horrible man would forever hold a piece of her?

Raoul had never given much thought to Erik as a person. Was Erik even capable of loving Christine, in feeling the same emotions he himself had for her, as he had so plainly articulated before leaving him tied up in this room? That thought made Raoul disgusted with himself, as he questioned the very humanity of another. Not only was it a disservice to Christine to think of Erik that way, but it reflected poorly on his own morality to see another person as nothing more than a caricature of evil. If Christine could see Erik as more than a monster, perhaps someday Raoul could as well. Erik had to have some redeemable qualities that made him worthy of forgiveness, and at this point Raoul had little choice but to hope this revelation would be what kept Erik from ending him before they could find a resolution where both men could live with who they were.

Resting his cheek on the dusty floor, Raoul laid still and silent, exhausted in body but also in mind, as he chewed over his thoughts of what to say to Erik upon his return. With his ear to the ground he could hear and feel the vibrations of the floor below him, the occupants below likely unaware of the tumultuous drama that played over their heads. He hoped that they would remain undisturbed, and whatever transpired next would remain between him and Erik, with no further casualties. He was done fighting, and with any luck his refusal to engage in more violence or hate would smother the rage Erik had towards him as well, and maybe they would finally see eye to eye.

Raoul sighed and closed his eyes. If his previous experience had taught him anything, it would be in his best interest to prepare for the worst. All he could do at this point was rest and wait, and before long Raoul heard a series of heavy, thumping footsteps leading up the stairs beyond the door. His chance to turn the tide had come, and though he was weak and ill prepared, he was ready to stand and face Erik as a reasonable man instead of some irreparable enemy, for the sake of saving his own life and being the lover that Christine deserved.


End file.
